


Apastron

by Pholo



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Allusions to PTSD, Angst with a Happy Ending, At least where this fic's concerned, Cuddling, Descriptions of sex (but no actual sexual content), Hurt/Comfort, I mean eventually, Juno's come a long way but he still feels like he deserves bad stuff sometimes, Letters, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of Suicide Ideation, Pining, at one point Juno thinks Peter's gonna hurt him because like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-01-23 00:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18539071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: 'Nureyev,I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.I guess I just need to get some stuff off my chest. It’s easier when I know you’re never gonna’ read this.'Juno writes letters to Nureyev, sure Nureyev will never see them....Except of course he does.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently Ao3's default font is different on mobile and smaller on desktop computers, so the scratched out/blotched text bits only look cohesive on specific laptops (┛ಠ_ಠ)┛彡┻━┻ AAAAAA

Juno whips up from his coiled position on the bed. He hunches and braces his hands around his ankles. He can feel the tickle of sheets and blankets against his thighs. It’s the stale desert air that shakes him out of his stupor, accompanied by a siren wail outside.

He’s back. He’s aboveground and home, safe on his bed. His old blanket hugs his legs. The light of a neon sign peeks through the blinds of his apartment window, painting little stripes along the far wall. Somewhere upstairs, a neighbor slams his door.

Juno is alive. Peter is alive.

Peter is gone.

Juno runs a hand over his face. He lets his palm rest over his mouth. His breath is fast and hot against his skin. He squeezes his eye shut. A shudder rattles up his spine, and he chokes around a sob.

Outside, the siren sound fades to a tiny keen over the traffic noise.

He has to get ahold of himself. Juno fumbles for the lamp on his bedside table. The bulb blinks awake, a pale yellow eye that washes over the room. Juno reaches for his comms. It takes him until the main screen loads to remember he doesn’t have Peter’s number; he would’ve swapped communicators since the Vixen Valley case.

Juno claps his comms back onto the table. He returns both hands to his face. He lays back against the mattress and wishes the fabric would swallow him up. What did he think he was going to say, anyway? How could he even begin to apologize?

For a long time Juno lies there on his back, his fingers fanned out over his face. He shifts their position so new patterns of light cross his skin. He closes his eye, tight enough to see red spots behind the lid.

The air conditioner rumbles on, and Juno turns onto his side. He kicks the last lump of blankets off his feet. There’s a creak of wood as he teases open the bedside drawer. He owns a computer tablet—Rita forced one on him last year—but he still prefers the sloped press of a pen against his fingers to a flat keypad. He takes out a notepad, along with a beaten blue pen, and sets to work.

 

 

 

_Nureyev,_

_I don’t know what the hell I’m doing._

_I guess I just need to get some stuff off my chest. It’s easier when I know you’re never gonna’ read this._

_I had another dream tonight. We were back in the tomb._

_If you asked me during the day, I wouldn’t be able to remember what you sounded like, when she electrocuted you. I blocked out the memory, maybe. But I must’ve retained the sound somewhere deep down, like a brand at the back of my brain, because at night I can hear you like you’re right next to me. I hear the way you gritted your teeth. The way you panted after they stopped. Tried to hide the sobs to preserve your dignity, or maybe spare me the guilt. I don’t know._

_Every night your laugh gets farther away and your screams get louder._

_Do you remember when I fell asleep with my head in your lap? It was so stupid. I couldn’t sleep. You ran your fingers through my hair and murmured at me like I was some kind of spooked animal. My head was such a mess by then…I couldn’t tell what the hell you were saying, but I passed out like you’d put a spell on me._

_I want to remember how that sounded—the words I couldn’t make out. I want to remember the way you said my name._

_I want to remember the fast, hushed way you talk when you get excited about artifacts or cave drawings or the blueprints of old buildings and trains. I swear your eyes light up like a little kid's. I want to remember that tired huff you do when you’re fed up with my bullshit._

_You're gone. All I have are my memories of you. And all my brain seems to want to give me are your goddamn screams…_

 

 

Juno haunts the office, mostly to give Rita some hours towards a decent salary. She has the money, but still; even he has principals to uphold. He pretends to tidy up his case files. The actual cases he keeps at arm’s length. As far as Juno’s concerned, he’s on leave. Permanent leave, maybe. 

Without work to keep him occupied, Juno turns to old habits. A few nights out of the week he finds himself slumped over a bar stool. In the morning he inevitably wakes to a pounding headache and a near stranger in his bed. It becomes a routine, grounding in its own fuzzy familiarity but no less uncomfortable.

In the now, Juno lays drooped across the bed as his latest fling closes the door behind her. He hears the click of the lock and reaches for his notepad.

 

 

 

_Nureyev,_

_You’ve ruined sex for me, you know._

_It’s really fucking annoying._

_With every person I’d fucked before you, I put up this wall. There was something about making eye contact…I didn’t want them to see me under them. It was kind of this kid mentality of, “If I can’t see them, they can’t see me.” That was how I avoided the emotional part of sex, maybe._

_And then, that night when we got back from the hospital…_

_I’ve never had anyone touch me like that._

_I don’t know why I feel like I need to describe it, but I do. It was different and important in a way I don’t understand, and it’s messing with me._

_You touched me like you wanted to memorize me. It should’ve driven me crazy. We weren’t even that far along. You were just kissing me, all over. Taking forever. Feeling my body. But I remember the weight of your hands on me, and shaking, and just praying you wouldn’t stop. I remember your lips on my chest, and how you shifted up and down with my breath. The brush of your ribs against mine. These soft little butterfly touches. I couldn’t put a name to what I was feeling—still can’t. It was too much in all the right ways. Whatever it was, I knew I didn’t deserve it. I just needed you to cut the crap and fuck me already. I was gonna’ tell you, and then I met your eyes, and the look on your face…_

_I’ll never forget that look. No one’s ever looked at me like that before._

_Why the hell did you have to look at me like that?_

 

 

 

He means to throw the letters away. Or burn them. Perhaps some dramatic flare will bring him closure. Lord knows Juno has done stranger things with his time…

 

 

 

_Nureyev,_

_I threw a cat off a balcony today. It had a bomb sewn into it. The explosion was pretty big. I think you would’ve laughed._

 

 

 

…But every time he moves to bin or burn the pages he loses his nerve. Oh well. Juno tucks them into his bedside drawer, under his lease agreement, Nureyev’s note and a pile of paperclips. It becomes his hidden anchor; a place to air his worst grievances.

 

 

 

_Nureyev,_

_I messed up today. Worse than I’ve messed up in a long time._

_I killed someone. Pushed her off a cart at the top of a Polaris roller coaster. Long story._

_It doesn’t matter what I meant to do. A woman’s dead. Her little girl’s going to grow up without a mom because of me._

_When you grow up in Oldtown you don’t see a lot of good parents. This girl had one who cared. And I took that away from her. Forever. And there’s no way for me to make up for that. What am I gonna’ do, send her stipends? ‘Here, sorry I killed your mom, have a couple hundred creds.’ Who would want that kind of help? I sure as hell wouldn’t._

_I told myself I left you that night because I needed to do some good for this godforsaken planet. But all I ever seem to do is make things worse._

_Hell, Nureyev. What’s even the point of me?_

 

 

 

Time passes. As though pulled by magnetic force, Juno returns to work.

 

 

 

_Nureyev,_

_Dahlias and roses. Oh, hardy har har._

_It only occurred to me after I’d left the office that I could’ve chased after you. That had to have been you, right? Or a delivery man. I could’ve wrung some answers out them. Whatever. I saw those flowers and my whole body shut down. Rita had to escort me to the car like I was high. That whole movie I was a million lightyears away._

_It wouldn’t have mattered. If I ran after you, you’d be gone before I got the chance to…what, apologize? I guess more than anything I wanna’ ask you ‘why.’ Why give a gift to the lady who threw you away like a piece of trash? Why the callback to our married aliases? Did you want to taunt me, maybe? If they’re not a ‘fuck you,’ then what do the flowers mean? If you came back to Mars to deliver them, does that mean you’d be willing to…_

_I don’t know._

_I took your card with me. ‘Happy birthday, Juno.’ Short and sweet._

_That letter you left me from the Kanagawa case—for months I kept it folded up in my pocket like a good luck charm. I wore it down from opening and closing it over and over again. It became like a nervous tick, where I’d find your note in my pocket and close my fingers around it and I’d feel grounded for a minute. It’s still in my top drawer back home, on top of all these letters to no one. I think if I tried to open it now it would tear right down the middle._

_I'd missed your handwriting._

 

 

 

Some letters are barely legible. Today Juno’s fingers feel like putty around his pen. His eyes are still red, cheeks chilled from dried tears. He’s hunched over his desk so Rita can’t see him over his stack of papers. It’s no use; she’ll be over to check up on him soon, no doubt armed with a cup of his favorite coffee and a silly stream. She knows the signs, after all these years.

 

 

 

_Nureyev,_

_I can’t even go into a goddamn closet._

_It’s so fucking stupid. I closed the door on myself at the office to reach a file cabinet. The room was too dim and too small. It’s funny—I was okay until I got out and walked across the room, and then suddenly my throat closed up, and I was right back there with you underground._

_Jesus. A closet. I had a panic attack over a fucking closet…_

 

 

 

_Nureyev,_

_I told myself I’d given up on politics—any government business. The capitol’s a rat’s nest of old corporate thugs. You’re more likely to shoot your blaster at the sky and hit a beer can on Phobos than make any real change._

_But there’s this one guy…Ramses O’Flaherty. He’s got that sense of history to him, like maybe he’s always been around even though he came out of nowhere. And I shouldn’t trust him, but I do._

_I’m under contract to keep him alive until Election Day. It fills the time, I guess._

_After the election—who knows. I could play bodyguard. Or I could disappear. Ramses makes me feel like maybe I won’t want to, once we’re finished. Like getting him elected…maybe this could be one big, right thing I can do for this city._

_I could really use a ‘big right thing,’ Nureyev._

 

 

 

_Nureyev,_

_Do you have a favorite song? A favorite outfit? A favorite drink?_

_You strike me as a tea guy…or do you like coffee? Both?_

_What do you do when you can’t sleep?_

_And god, what are you_ bad _at? I’ve only seen you at your best, outside the tomb. All perfect clothes and razor elegance. But what about…I dunno’. Cooking? Piano? I’d like to think you’re bad at_ something _. Maybe you can’t sew, or braid, or draw. Those doodles from your pockets were abstract; was that the point? Or were they supposed to be realistic?_

_I get the sense you see the world differently than I do. When I was in your memories everything was louder; brighter. When I look at a room there’s a hierarchy to what I see—stuff I’ve trained myself to dismiss or explore. For you everything was equally significant. You saw beauty in the tiniest nooks and crannies. Maybe you draw things like they feel and not how they are._

_It just feels so wrong. I know your lips. I know your laugh. I know you at the height of a heist. I know you when you’re beaten and starved. I know your name, your past, your worst fears. I know how you look when you’re about to kill someone, and when you’re on the verge of death, and when you’re naked and haloed by an old hotel light and your eyes are…_

_Maybe all that means I know you better than anyone. But I still don’t_ know you _, Peter Nureyev. Not really._

_It kills me that I never will._

 

 

 

_Nureyev,_

_Ever mix Corona with Venusian Vodka? There’s a dead moth on the windowsill._

_I should probably put the pen down but why bother right. Nobodys gonna see._

_Im really tired_

_Your eyes are so beautiful. You sounded so scared._

__

 

 

 

Some letters are hardly a smudge on paper:

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s days before he can elaborate on that one. The next time Juno gets the chance to pick up a pen, his pad’s crinkled with sand and a thick bandage is making his eye socket itch. The tip of Juno’s pen feels like his last tether between reality and the void of the past:

 

 

 

_Nureyev,_

_I didn’t think I’d get the chance to write again._

_There had to have been a billion things I wanted to say to you back there. But I knew I’d only have a couple seconds to write before Pereyra or the Pirhana confiscated my things. So I got straight to the point. Still didn’t get to finish. Pereyra ripped the paper right out of my hands._

_A couple hours later I turned over their corpse and fished my pad out of their pocket._

_I guess you could say it’s been a long week._

_I got someone killed. Decided I wanted to die. Nearly had the blood drained out of my body. Decided I wanted to live. Wandered the radioactive desert; reunited a crime boss with her lost lover. Ramses turned out to be Jack Takano, who turned out to be the guy who stole mom’s story pitch for Northstar and ruined our lives._

 

 

 

Juno has to take a break here to run a hand over his face. He traces the edges of his bandage—tests its texture against the pads of his fingers. Then he lets out a huff and returns to writing.

 

 

 

_I told you my brother died, but I guess I never told you his name._

_It’s been decades. I can still see his face. The trails of blood on the floor, where he dragged himself a few feet towards the door. You don’t forget what death feels like, on a person’s skin._

_Mom thought he was me, you know. That’s why she shot him. I don’t think I’m ever gonna’ be over that. But now I feel…less guilty. Less like I could’ve stopped it._

_Less like it should’ve been me._

_Because Ben made his choice. He’d want me to respect that. And mom’s the one who killed him, not me. Mom’s the one who let herself give up. I can only control who I am and what I do._

_Maybe I can’t change Mars or Hyperion or even Oldtown—but I can change myself. That’s what I have to believe._

  

 

 

_Nureyev,_

_I’ve written to you from some pretty out there places. A tunnel underground—The Promised Land, the middle of the desert, and now the Oldtown sewers. We’re stopping to rest for a sec (me and a baby rabbit)._

_Buddy’s friend dropped me off at a city I don’t recognize. The streets were empty. You don’t get empty streets on Mars—even during sandstorm lockdowns there’s always_ someone _outside to vandalize a drugstore or take a video with their shirt off_. _Something fucked up’s going on aboveground. I don’t know what yet, but I’m gonna' find out._

 _I can’t get ahold of Rita. You’ve gotta’ understand—that shouldn’t be possible. Maybe she won’t pick up when she’s asleep, but during the day? Rita_ always _has her comms on her. Always._

_I’m scared, Nureyev. If something’s happened to her I_

 

 

 

_Nureyev,_

_Our Oldtown apartment complex was a real piece of work._

_They were running some kind of brothel upstairs. Mom didn’t allow us out of the room after eight, because when the clients came back downstairs they were high and loud and sometimes they got grabby. The windows couldn’t keep out the dope smell. Once a guy got shot on his way to his car._

_Before he died, Ramses told me he sent mom money. Enough that we could’ve kept our house in Hyperion, or at least moved towards the outer rim of Oldtown. Away from the epicenter of destitution._

_But mom wouldn’t take the money._

_It's crazy. We could’ve left. Could’ve skipped the creeps in the stairwell. The cold showers; the peeling wallpaper. But for mom—_ somehow _—raising her kids in that garbage heap was holding onto her dignity._

_I told you before I wouldn’t want my own charity, when I killed Yasmin Swift. But now?_

_Now I’m not so sure._

_We’re about to set out, back to Hyperion. When I get back to town, I’m gonna’ call Northstar. Ask them to contact Swift’s sister; I’m pretty sure she has custody. And I’ll offer her a stipend._

_She’ll tell me no. But I need to at least try. For her niece’s sake. It’s the fucking least I can do._

 

 

 

Juno writes the last letter on a Friday. It’s sunny outside the dome, and warm light plays off the swept floor of Juno’s apartment. He sits on this stripped bed, a duffel bag and a small box at his feet. He feels—odd. Empty, but warm. The paper of his pad crinkles as he flips to an empty page.

 

 

 

_Peter,_

_Sometimes you become the place you grew up. Sometimes you become the city ambience and the charged static smell right before a sandstorm, and old telephone poles full of staples and crusted fliers, and the fire escape where you ate lunch with your first crush and the house where your brother died. You define yourself by those things for so long that when they change, you become a stranger to yourself. You become homeless under your own skin._

_Rita suggested a new start. Over a year ago you offered me the same thing and I ran away, because I wasn’t ready to find out who I was outside life on Mars; because I knew I’d hurt you, or you’d get hurt because of me; because this way I could be the one to walk away. That’s why I didn’t stop to talk, because yeah—I was scared you’d want to end things, but more than that I was scared you_ wouldn’t _. If we'd found a compromise where you'd come back to Mars every so often, or I'd leave to visit wherever you were, then we’d get closer and you’d start to figure out who I really was. Or, who I wasn't. The kind of person I couldn't be for you._

_I did want to do some good for Mars, but honestly? That was on the back burner. In that moment, that night at the door of our hotel room, most of all I couldn’t stand to watch you fall out of love with me. It would’ve killed me._

_So I did the selfish thing. The cowardly thing. You trusted me with your name and your love and your trauma and I left. Didn’t even bother with a goodbye. And I know you’ll never read this, or even care—but I’m so sorry._

_I went to the storage unit to drop off your notes—your goodbye from the Kanagawa case, and your birthday card—and these letters. But I couldn’t bear to close the door on them. It didn’t feel right, even though you’re gone. Even though this trip is supposed to be about moving on. I just couldn’t leave you behind. Not again._

_I'm just so fucking sorry, Peter._

 

 

 

Juno’s comms beep; Rita’s outside with her car, ready to set off for the desert. Juno clicks his pen closed. He rips the two pages from the pad and wipes his eyes.

He grabs his things and pretends not to look back. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Juno. It’s been a while.”

Nureyev’s voice seizes Juno by the core and rattles him around like a kid with a snow globe. He stands there, unable to move as sand pools along the lines of his coat. Beside him, Rita thrusts out an accusatory finger. Her shrill voice fills the desert air:

“ _MISTA GLASS?!_ ”

“An old alias,” Nureyev acquiesces. Juno’s heart sputters back to life, then coughs and dies like a finicky car engine. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, miss Rita.”

Buddy steps forward on the ship ramp as Juno scrambles to regain control of his bodily functions. “Rita, I don’t believe we’ve met. You can call me Buddy; the trickster goddess behind me is Vespa—”

“Oh, stop.”

“And the one you called ‘Rex Glass’ is actually Bryce Hawthorn—”

But Nureyev waves a hand as though to shoo away the name. “No need for that; Juno already knows my real name, and I trust his closest confidante. You can call me Peter Nureyev, Miss Rita.”

It’s that comment that unlatches the trap door beneath Juno’s feet. The world falls out from under him. Dust bunnies fill the vacuum where his braincells used to be. Juno’s gaze flits between the other members of Buddy’s crew, but they show no signs of surprise—though Vespa’s smile goes a little squiggly when she meets his eye, like she’s trying not to laugh. It occurs to Juno that he hasn’t so much as twitched since he caught sight of Nureyev. With wooden fingers he shakes the worst of the sand from his hair.

“We’re too exposed out here; I’ll show you the rest of the ship.” Buddy waves the three of them forward. Jet leads the procession up onto the loading ramp, Juno’s brain somewhere leagues above his body as his feet move on their own volition. 

The door suctions closed behind them—and that’s the last glimpse they get of the Marian desert.

 

 

“So you’re using your real name now?”’

Juno hadn’t meant to say that. His fingers slip around the plate he’s washing. Grayish spray threatens his sleeves as he scrambles after the dish. Nureyev doesn’t react to the frantic display. He crosses to the opposite counter and plucks open a cupboard.

“Two decades ago I gave away my name,” he starts. “It became a symbol under my direction; a weapon to wield against me, or to shield the citizens of Brahma. And for a while I relished the freedom of anonymity. But meeting you made me realize I didn’t want to be a symbol anymore. I wanted to know myself, and to be known—not as a shadow or a mask, but as Peter Nureyev.” He pauses to root around in the cabinet. “It seemed to me that to reclaim the name for myself, I had to strip it of its power. And what better way to neuter a symbol than the acts of distribution and repetition? Say a word enough times and it ceases to mean anything...”

Juno regains control of the dishes but not his frantic heart rate. A tin rattles. Nureyev closes the cabinet behind him, his hand wrapped around a metal canister; he muses, less to Juno than to the room: “A name that is kept secret stands for something; a name spoken by many belongs to someone. It’s paradoxical, in a way. To regain ownership of my name, I had to give it to others.”

Juno swallows. Soap lathers up between his fingers. Not for the first time since their reunion, he feels a pang of loss. His heart had swelled with pride, to be the one person Nureyev trusted with his name. For over a year he’d cradled that part of Nureyev close to his chest, like a spell or a good luck charm. Now the magic is gone. Juno knew he’d ceased to be Nureyev’s exception the moment he closed that hotel room door—but still. The reality stings.

Despite all that—as he loads a dish into the compact washer beneath the sink, Juno can’t deny the way his chest grows warm or how a smile teases at the corner of his mouth. Past the selfish, childlike whine of his heart, Juno’s happy for Nureyev.

More than that—he’s proud. Really proud.

“Must’ve been hard.” It’s the understatement of the year. If Juno had kept his name secret for nearly twenty years, he doubts he’d have the courage to tell one person, let alone an entire crew. “I’m...glad. That you decided to open up.”

Juno doesn’t look up from the dishwater, but he thinks he hears Nureyev set the tin down on the counter. It’s odd that he hasn’t taken out a wafer yet. If Juno didn’t know better he’d say he’d planned to grab the snack and leave but had decided to stall for company. “It was...difficult. yes. But necessary.”

Juno nods to the soap suds. The sound of water fills the silence; Juno does the dishes and Nureyev rests against the counter with his can of wafers. It’s not as though they’re at a standoff, but tension builds at the base of Juno’s spine all the same. The longer he stands at the sink the closer his shoulders get to his ears. By the time he closes the washer on the last dish, his chest has gone tight with knots. He yanks a dish towel off the hook over the sink.

“We should talk, right?”

He looks over. Nureyev hasn’t moved from his place along the counter. The edges of his glasses catch the kitchen light; past the lenses his gaze is neutral. Funny how life works: Juno ran that night out of fear that someday Peter would turn to him with that same loveless stare, and now by the same token he’s brought that future to fruition.

It hurts more than any look of anger, to see eyes that normally sparkle like stars go flat when they land on him.

“Nureyev,” Juno says, when Nureyev won’t speak. “I’m—”

“Don’t.” Juno feels the word like a physical blow. Nureyev shuts his eyes briefly, as though to steel himself. “You want to explain yourself, correct?”

Juno fumbles for purchase. “I—yeah.”

“Then perhaps I can spare you the trouble. Allow me to hazard a guess: You weren’t ready to leave Mars. You felt you had a duty to the people there. You couldn’t leave your friends. You did not expect to have to follow through on the words you spoke to me before the bomb detonated.” He stops for a reaction. Juno’s stares at him, jaw locked, feet rooted to the floor. “I could go further. Maybe you didn’t feel like you deserved to chase your happiness. Maybe you didn’t even want to live. Maybe you convinced yourself I’d be better off without you, or you couldn’t trust me to love you for who you were. Am I getting warm, detective?”

Juno wants to say he's not a detective anymore, but the words are tangled up at the back of his throat. His arm twitches from strain; as though from far away he registers the sting of his fingernails, hands pale-knuckled fists at his sides, and forces his fingers to uncurl by the barest degree. At last he strings along enough syllables to say, “How did you…?”

Nureyev gestures to his head. “A thief’s memory, Juno, and over a year to parse over the details. Across our two cases you demonstrated a fierce devotion to your career; an inability to trust or anticipate positive outcomes; a past you spoke about with great reluctance, disdain or guilt; a penchant for self-deprecation, and a _remarkable_ lack of self preservation—” He claps his can of wafers down on the kitchen counter. “For god’s sake, Juno. In the two cumulative weeks we spent together you offered yourself up for grievous bodily harm or _death_ in my stead no fewer than _five times_. Of course you wouldn’t entertain grand plans for the future with that mindset—that pattern of destructive behavior. Of course you would frame your departure as an act of duty.” In what Juno would call a very un-Nureyev-like gesture, he combs a hand over his face. His glasses hitch with the scrub of his fingers. “I wasn’t looking at the broader context of the situation, at the time. I didn’t consider your mental state. I should have known not to hold you accountable for the things you said moments before you…” he trails off. The next words come out thicker—spat out, almost: “But I—goddamnit Juno, at least when I disappeared I had the courtesy to leave a _note._ ”

A crack splits the center of Juno's chest. “Nureyev...”

“I’m sorry.” Nureyev abandons the wafers and stalks towards the door. “That was uncalled for.”

“No, you’re right—”

But he’s already through the doorway. “I need to step away, I should think. We can talk more tomorrow.”

Any words of protest are lost between Juno's brain and his mouth. Nureyev doesn’t look over his shoulder as he turns the corner towards his room. Juno stares at the empty entryway as though to burn a hole through the opposite wall.

Behind Juno, the faucet drips. His legs are on the verge of collapse. With shaky hands he grasps behind him for the support of the counter. Finding the edge, he leans back on his hands. He feels more than hears a sharp sound leave his throat.

Juno hangs his head.

“Fuck,” he says to the floor. “God da— _fuck_.”

The panels swim under Juno’s feet. He screws his eye shut so tight he sees sparks behind the lid.

His thoughts are crumpled paper—but through the mess of his head a mantra pounds a rut into his skull: _The courtesy to leave a note. The courtesy to leave a note. The courtesy to leave a note..._

 

Despite the late hour, a thin light peeks out from under the bottom of Nureyev’s door. Juno stands outside, arms wound tight around a nondescript package, heart a stone at the soles of his shoes. It feels like forever since he arrived at Nureyev’s room, but he hasn’t knocked yet. He hovers, still as a brick, and waits for some semblance of courage to possess his limbs.

Nureyev saves him the trouble. The door to his room slides open, whether because Nureyev meant to leave on some unrelated venture or because he'd spotted Juno’s shadow under the door. Juno observes the wild slant to his hair. He’s dressed for bed, makeup wiped from his face and the cuff undone from his ear. His eyes are wide.

The former option then. It’s a rare thing, to take Peter Nureyev by surprise. Juno would be proud of himself under less dire circumstances.

“Juno,” Nureyev says, the shock already gone from his face. “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk any more tonight.”

Juno means to reassure him, but his tongue won’t move from the roof of his mouth. Nureyev seems to sense Juno’s distress. He peers at him owlishly, the dark lines under his eyes more pronounced in the absence of makeup.

“Juno?” he prompts.

There’s a crinkle of material. In an awkward shuffle of fingers Juno holds out his package. Nureyev’s bright gaze settles on the mess of bruised cardboard and lint-littered tape. With some reluctance he takes the box. The air leaves Juno’s lungs with the weight on his hands. A swarm of static fills his ears.  

Through the haze he sees Nureyev adjust his grip on the box.

“What’s this?”

It feels like Juno speaks the words out of someone else’s mouth:

“My note.”

Then he flees.

 

Juno doesn’t bother going to his room; he knows he won't be able to sleep. His feet take him to the ‘lounge,’ a chrome room with a couch, a video screen and a cabinet ‘shelf’ for books and stolen knickknacks. Juno’s resolve crumples with his knees the moment he reaches the couch. He flops down onto the cushions with all the ceremony of a dead fish.

The plush fabric swallows him up. Juno groans.

Their coffee table creaks with the motion of the ship. A machine beeps under the video screen. For what feels like an age Juno lays there, face-down and dejected. At last he finds the strength to turn his head. He has one of the ‘bedrooms’ without a porthole, but this area has three massive windows; he searches for a hint of a star or planet outside their metal matchbox ship. Some nebulas are brighter than others, and tonight the darkness seems to stretch on forever. Figures the view would be so drab on the night Juno most needed the distraction. He picks at a loose thread on the arm of the couch and lets his mind circle back to Nureyev.

Juno wants to hope he’s tossed the box down the trash chute and gone to bed. But he can’t kid himself. This is Nureyev, cat-turned-human-turned-thief. The mystery of an unopened box would've killed him. He's probably plowed through the letters like a fist through tissue paper.

Juno curls up like a pillbug. With a limp hand he grabs a pillow from the corner of the couch and crunches it over his face. It smells like ventilated air and the soap the crew uses for laundry.

As a rule, Juno never reread his letters. Why would he? To Juno they were the equivalent of a bucket at a sick person’s bedside—someplace to throw up and not make a mess all over the floor. He knows he gushed about sex at one point, and that’s already more than enough to make him shrivel up and decompose on the spot. His mind strains to recall the rest: a case here, a panic attack there—some commentary on Jack and the election. Of course Juno remembers the letter he wrote a few days ago. He pictures the look of disgust on Nureyev’s face as he recounts the same old excuses and spasms more than winces.  

He's such a screw-up. That’s his last thought before he hears footsteps.

With reservation Juno lowers the pillow from his face. Nureyev enters the room like a vengeful storm. In what feels like less than a second he’s traveled from the doorway to the couch; a hand latches around Juno’s wrist like a handcuff. Juno doesn’t resist when he’s towed onto his feet. His mind flashes to violence first, and he braces for a punch—but the hand on his wrist remains their sole point of contact as Nureyev tows him towards the door. Juno can’t get a look at Nureyev's face, but his shoulders are full of tension, stride long enough that Juno has to race to keep up.

“Uh. Nureyev?” Juno ventures. The hallway support beams pass like telephone poles outside a car window. “You trying to recruit me for your mall-walking club or are we actually going somewhere?”

No response.

“Nureyev?”

But Nureyev won’t bite. They round a bend; a door looms at the end of the hall. Their destination becomes clear: Nureyev’s room. Juno swallows down another snide remark. He’s done enough damage for one night. For what feels like the first time since he moved out of his mother’s house, Juno Steel makes the decision not to rock the boat.

The thought rings back and forth between his earsas Nureyev palms opens his door:  _Whatever he wants to do to you, you deserve._

But another voice at the back of his head shakes him by the shoulders:

 _He wouldn’t hurt you._   _Not Nureyev._

_Not like that._

It’s this voice that carries Juno over the threshold of Nureyev’s room. The door slides shut behind them—and darkness hits Juno like a brick wall. Nureyev’s room could be the center of a black hole for all the light the porthole gives off. Juno looks down and can’t see his shoes. That pressure only closes tighter around his wrist; Nureyev leads Juno across the bedroom as though the void were only mild shade. He yanks him to a stop, and Juno’s shin brushes a piece of furniture. The heat of Nureyev’s fingers vanish then. Cool air raises goosebumps on his wrist.

For a moment Juno stands there, an astronaut untethered from his shuttle. Blind but for the vague outline of the porthole, Juno struggles to locate Nureyev. A shadow moves out of the corner of his eye, and then he’s shoved backwards; there's a scrunch of fabric as Juno's back hits something soft. A bed. He doesn’t make to run, but he bristles when the mattress dips with Nureyev’s weight.

Another pause. Juno knows Nureyev must lay down somewhere beside him, though he can only guess at the angle. The sheets rustle. Juno stays flat on his back like a stone slab. He starts as a palm lands on his chest, up towards his shoulder—and then there’s pressure on his ribcage. Nureyev’s head.

The sheets curl and collapse. The mattress stills. Quiet resumes, underlined by the whir of the ship’s engines and ventilation system. Nureyev’s hand doesn’t so much as twitch over Juno’s shoulder. The hair on the crown of his head barely brushes Juno’s chin.

Juno’s heart rattles against his ribcage. He trips over a picture of Nureyev, curled along his side, hand and head on his chest, over and over. He can’t even begin to guess how they’ve gotten here or why, or what Nureyev plans to do next.

The answer to that last quest appears to be nothing—at least for the moment. The atmosphere thrums with tension but never escalates. Nureyev seems content to simply lie there, head pillowed on Juno’s chest. Time passes, marked by the periodic click of the heater across the room. Juno’s heartbeat slows. The ruffled feathers of his mind smooth over bristle by bristle.

Of course he was right. Nureyev would never hurt him.

Juno lets some of the stress leak out of his limbs. His head falls back against the bed. His arms go lax at his sides.

As the seconds stack up and up, Juno begins to suspect that for the first time since they’ve met, Nureyev has no plan.

Then Nureyev speaks:

“Dear Juno.”

Juno lurches. The two words are enough to tear him from his very foundations—because Nureyev can’t be about to do what he _sounds_ like he’s about to do. Juno lies still, adrift under his own skin as Nureyev's voice skims over his ears: “I don’t dream about your screams. I dream about your silence. I dream that I fall asleep beside you on that cot, and I wake up and you’re gone. I dream I escape Miasma’s tomb, and when I come back to rescue you you’re already dead.” He swallows, and Juno feels a twist of fingers on his shoulder. “I dream the bomb goes off and when I enter that awful room there’s not a trace of you. I dream I wake up to an empty hotel room. And I dream I wake up to a world that’s perfectly ordinary, but when I go to look up your name on my comms I find your obituary.”

A sting sets up behind Juno’s eye. He couldn’t possibly respond to this—not with hours to think of what to say, or years. His brain tumbles to keep up as Nureyev continues: “You say you wish you could remember my voice. I wish I could remember your touch. I wish I could remember how your weight felt propped up against mine; the brush of your hands. The softness of your skin.” The fingers along Juno’s shoulder curl by a hair’s breadth. “I miss the privilege of your warmth.”

He stops. Juno peers down at Nureyev—or, where he feels him on his chest. There’s no way to parse out his face or body language in the dark.

It occurs to Juno with a shock that that’s probably the point.

Out of nowhere Nureyev picks up his speech—and holy shit, how many of these does he plan to respond to?

“Dear Juno.

“I took you to bed that night because I wanted to give and receive pleasure. Because I was petrified for your life, and I needed to feel your body under my hands to know you were still alive. Because you were so reserved with physical contact and I _ached_ for you, and I hoped that with our bodies pressed together you would finally hold me.

“‘Why did I have to look at you like that.’ You might as well ask me why I gave you my name the night we met, or put on such a performance with the Utgard heist—or asked you to relive my darkest memories. It’s because I love you.” If he feels Juno tense up beneath him, he gives no sign. “I trusted you, and that night you trusted _me_ with your body and your pleasure. You looked up at me—because oh Juno, you have no right to complain after the way _you_ looked at _me_ —like I was your own little galaxy. Like you couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that yes, somehow I was still beside you—still real, and I still wanted you.” His head nudges sideways on Juno’s chest, his nose turned further down towards his clavicle. “I was so proud to be your miracle, Juno Steel.”

That forces all the air out of Juno’s body. The name catches on the roof of his mouth:

“Nureyev—”

“Dear Juno,” Nureyev snaps. Juno clamps his mouth shut. “I never pegged you for a cat person, but to fling one off a balcony does seem a tad _excessive_. Something tells me I’ll enjoy the particulars of this case; you’ll have to share the whole story in your next letter.

“No cat bombs on this end, I’m afraid. I’ve relegated myself to freelance work until I’ve found my focus—and that can only lead to petty robberies. I could really do for one of your adventures, minus the bodily harm...”

A longer beat this time, like Nureyev has to gather his strength for the next ‘letter.’ Juno feels his chest rise and fall against his side.

“Dear Juno.

“Oh, Juno.

“The point of you is to exist. To breathe, and think, and take up space—to sneak out of windows and collect horrible, _horrible_ art and throw cats off of balconies.” Nureyev’s head moves, the barest shake against Juno’s chest. “You put so much pressure on yourself to do good, Juno, that I fear you forget to simply _be_. Your mistakes—no matter how terrible—do not strip you of your right to _exist._ ”

Nureyev hovers on the edge of speech for a while after that. One at a time, his fingers hook around the fabric of Juno's shirt.

“Juno. You may doubt I can understand the guilt you must feel. It’s the nature of my work that the people I kill are almost always crooks and degenerates. But over the years there have been security guards; police officers; drivers I’ve dispatched who were only on the periphery of evil. Those people no doubt had partners or children—or both.” He adjusts his grip on Juno’s shirt. “It’s been a long time since I’ve _allowed_ myself to feel guilty, truth be told, for the people I’ve killed. For the lives I’ve ruined. But I am familiar with that weight. And for what it’s worth, I am so very sorry this thing happened to you. I can only hope that someday you will be able to forgive yourself.”

Another pause. The shock has worn off enough for Juno to marvel at the pressure of Nureyev’s head and hand on his body. The sense memory of his touch flares back like a struck match, and Juno’s chest thrums with a painful fondness. That signature cologne smell wraps around him like a blanket—like Nureyev where he lays curled along Juno’s side.

Juno grasps the sheets to restrain his fingers. He needs to puzzle Nureyev’s figure out of the dark—to see his face. He needs to trace the strained tendons of his fingers where they curl along his shoulder.

Juno hears Nureyev’s tongue click as he opens his mouth:

“Dear Juno.

“You asked me why I left you flowers.” He taps his fingertips along Juno’s chest. “It wasn’t something I gave much thought to at first. I remember everything I read, and I read your birthday on your HCPD record. It gave me an excuse to contact you, I suppose.

“I operated under a veil of propriety for a while—convinced myself the flowers were a gesture of goodwill. But by the time I’d arrived at your door the bouquet was no longer intended as a gift, but a reminder. I wanted to leave you with that piece of our history. I wanted you to look back and remember the thing you did. I wanted you to know that while you might have moved on with your life, I had not disappeared. I was still real, and I was still out there somewhere, living with the consequences of the choice you made.

“And yet, if the flowers were interpreted differently—perhaps as an olive branch, or an invitation…” His teeth clack as he closes his mouth. When he resumes, he sounds drained: “I wouldn’t have minded. Because you wouldn’t have been wrong. Even though I’d timed my arrival to avoid it, I still wished you had been the one to open the door. I still wished you had chased after me, when I turned the corner of your block. Because you hurt me, Juno, and I love you—and over time I’ve come to discover those two things are not mutually exclusive.

“In the end, more than anything, I suppose those flowers simply said how much I missed you.”

There’s barely a beat to process the enormity of that last statement—for exactly that reason, Juno’s sure. The sheets crinkle as Nureyev coils closer to Juno on the bed:

“Dear Juno.

“A few months ago I took on a heist that required me to sleep at odd hours, often on less than horizontal surfaces. For one such nap I found myself under the desk of an abandoned general practitioner's office.

“I’ve slept on the ground countless times over the course of my career, but not since our... _stint_ with Miasma. When I woke I did not know where I was. My mind overlaid the two locations—the clinic on Oberon and the Martian chamber—until I could not discern one from the other. I both knew Miasma was dead and at once was certain she had taken you as I slept.”

His voice sounds raw—bitter. Juno wrestles down the urge to speak. He understands at some base level that Nureyev’s speech hinges on his silence. Juno’s task is to preserve the gentle fiction of sleep or distance—that he’s unconscious or a thousand lightyears away, unable to hear the way Nureyev’s voice wavers or feel the tremor of his fingers against his shoulder.

“I don't know how long I searched for you. In any case, the attack lasted too long to be hand-waved. So rather than push on with the heist I decided to relegate myself to low-stakes freelance work, to allow myself time to recover from our misadventure. But the slow pace has only left me listless and hollow.

"My condition has...worsened.

“As a thief, my work hinges on my ability to think quickly and logically. Faced with a situation where I can’t trust my own mind to tell past from present, I am struck by your old question: ‘What is even the point of me?’”

Juno’s fingers ache where they wrench around the sheets. He grits his teeth to stifle a pained sound.

He hates that he doesn’t know what to say to make this right. He hates that he’s not even allowed to _try_. 

“Dear Juno.

“I confess I have been keeping up with The Hyperion Tribune. It’s the easiest way to check up on you—look for the most scandalous headline and your name will almost certainly follow.

“I too would sooner trust a mob boss than a politician, but for your sake I hope the election goes well. I know how much your city means to you.”

The room turns stuffy then. Nureyev lowers his voice to a murmur and confesses,

“Please don’t ever disappear, Juno. Don’t make me live my worst fear. Not when I’ve just gotten you back.”

The statement floats outside the timeline of Juno’s letters. Juno shuts his eye. Nureyev takes a few uneven breaths, like he has to fight to regain his composure. It occurs to Juno for the first time that he’s placed his ear right over his heart. He wonders what conclusion Nureyev has drawn from his wild heart rate.

_I needed to feel your body under my hands to know you were still alive._

Nureyev resumes as though he never faltered:

“Dear Juno,

“I don’t often listen to music, and when I do I’m not picky. You’re right; I can’t stand coffee, though I have been known to stockpile caffeinated tea. When I can’t sleep I read something boring like a manual.

“As for ‘what am I bad at.’ Of course you would ask something like that…”

He sounds fond, not offended. Juno swears he can feel a tiny smile where he turns his face against Juno’s shirt.  

“I’m bad at a good number of things, Juno. I can’t cook. I can’t whistle. I tried to learn wood carving for an alias and nearly chopped my fingers off with a socket chisel. I’m a terrible dancer, which has barred me from galas and almost cost me several high-end heists. And yes, while I enjoy drawing, I’m not very good at it. From what I’ve seen of her desk your secretary is quite skilled in that area; perhaps she’ll give me some pointers.

“There’s so much I want to know about you too, Juno. For all the research I’ve done—for all the ways I’ve broken down and rearranged the pieces of our time together to make sense of your departure—your truth always slips through my fingers. I want to learn who you are from you, not your HCPD records or my memories. I want to know all the silly little things that make you who you are: Your favorite time of day; your favorite place. I want to know what kind of streams you like and which you’ll only tolerate for Rita’s sake. I want to know your morning routine—not from a hotel or miles below ground, but when you wake up at a place you call home, where you can dress and eat at your leisure.” His head shifts again. “I never got the chance to make you laugh; I want to know what that sounds like…”

“Dear Juno.”

A tiny breath gusts out of him, and his fingers slip on Juno’s shirt.

“I love you too. Now please go to bed before you hurt yourself.”

The heat returns behind Juno’s eye. He does his best to stifle the sensation, but the pressure only grows as Nureyev says,

“Dear Juno—where are you? Are you hurt?”

Juno shakes his head. Nureyev must sense he’s about to crack, because he plows on as though he were under a time crunch: “Please tell me what’s going on. I know you wouldn’t send a letter like that unless you were under extreme duress.

“I’m scared for you, Juno. Promise me you’ll stay safe.”

And—

“Dear Juno.

“Thank you for trusting me with this—with your past. With your brother’s name. I’m just...”

The words catch like a net in a rudder. Nureyev’s whole body goes taut against Juno’s. Juno feels his heart lurch at the wet hiss of his breath. He’s never seen Nureyev cry, and the darkness won’t allow him to now—but he can hear the sounds he traps at the back of his throat, and feel the way his muscles strain where he bends further over Juno.

“Juno,” he wrenches out finally. “I’m just so glad you’re alive.”

It’s too much. Juno releases the sheets; his arms latch around Nureyev's back. His hands fist around the fabric of his shirt. Even as Nureyev’s weight pushes him down Juno tugs him closer, closer—until Nureyev’s nearly on top of him, one leg slung over Juno’s with his face turned against his neck. Draped across him like this with no light to discern the places where his body ends and Nureyev’s begins, Juno could almost pretend they’re the same entity. Hair tickles Juno’s cheek; Nureyev makes a sound suspiciously like a sob. The fingers around Nureyev’s shirt convulse. This time Juno doesn’t bother to fight the tears that gather at the corner of his eye.

They’re here. They’re together. It’s been over a year since they last touched like this. Those same ribs shift against Juno’s. He feels Nureyev’s weight and holds him, holds him, holds him.

"I lied," Peter rasps out. "All that...fluff about symbols. I needed to share my name because I couldn't stand that you were the only one who knew. I felt as though you owned me. It was—stupid of me." 

“That's not stupid, Peter.” Juno’s never been more scared to say a person’s first name—but Nureyev bows closer over his chest, so he doesn’t look back. How could he have thought that name was anything less than magical? It was still a gift, no matter how many people Peter gave it to. “I'm so fucking sorry. It doesn’t matter why I left. I did that to you. I hurt you.”

Juno feels the words on his throat: “No, Juno. I should have known. I shouldn’t have pressured you to stay. I was so caught up in my plans for the future that I never stopped to consider what you must have been going through." He shudders under Juno’s hands. "When I entered that bunker and found you alive...I couldn’t place your tone back then, but looking back on that day—you were _disappointed_.” Peter makes a twisted huff of a sound, like a parody of a laugh. “And all I could think about was whisking you away from the only world you’d ever known; all the friends you’d ever had!”

“It’s not your job to read my mind. I should’ve talked to you.”

“It’s not so wrong to hope your prospective partner would notice when you’re despondent like that, Juno, let alone passively _suicidal_.”

Juno tilts his head, and Nureyev has moved enough that his lips almost graze his forehead. “Peter, you read my letters. I didn’t leave because you missed something I didn’t even want you to see. I left because I wasn’t ready, and because I was scared to fuck everything up and lose you.”

Peter’s chest rises as though he plans to argue, but then he brushes against Juno’s wet cheek.

“Oh, Juno.”

Juno chokes back a wounded sound. Nureyev adjusts his position enough to unwrap his hand from behind Juno’s wing bone, then finds his face. Fingers fan out across Juno’s jaw; a thumb settles below his eye. Juno hiccups out a protest as Nureyev brushes away his tears.

“Nureyev…”

“Did you mean it?” Nureyev asks him. “‘You crossed it out. Does that mean you regretted it?”

“Crossed what out?”

“‘I love you.’” Nureyev’s voice breaks around the words. “You wrote it when you were drunk; perhaps you don’t remember.”

He does. It’s hazy, but he remembers.

Juno swallows. “Peter, would you—where’s your face?”

“My face?”

“Yeah, where are you?” He pats around with his fingers.

“I’m here.” Nureyev removes his own hand from Juno’s face, to grasp Juno’s and guide the palm up to his cheek. It’s warm and sloped and perfect. “I’m right here, Juno.”

_I was so proud to be your miracle, Juno Steel._

Juno pretends his hand doesn’t shake as he guides Nureyev’s head closer to his own. The words trip out of his mouth, hindered by Nureyev’s weight on his chest: “I love you. I love you and I’ve still got a lot of shit to figure out but I’m getting better, and I promise I’m going to talk to you the next time it gets that bad and I really, really want to kiss you right now.”

“Then kiss me,” Nureyev says, and closes the gap.

It’s an awkward angle at first, heedless as they are to each other’s exact location, but Nureyev’s lips skim over Juno’s, and then Juno opens his mouth to meet him and _yes_ , they slot together at last. Juno’s fingers move on their own volition, back up to tangle through Nureyev’s hair. They press together and break; press together and break. It’s hot and heavy and fast—but Juno ducks away the next time Nureyev chases after his mouth. He finds Nureyev’s chin; Nureyev starts as he brushes his lips along the corner of his mouth. Juno moves further up on his cheek, then—with a strain of his neck tendons—pecks him on his temple; his forehead. Juno makes sure to let his kisses linger as he moves across Nureyev’s face. He maps him out of the dark like a constellation, as Nureyev had done for him so long ago.

It’s new territory for Juno—this kind of frivolous exploration. It’s more than easy. With Nureyev under his mouth he never wants to stop.

A droplet hits the skin along Juno’s clavicle as he presses a last kiss to the skin below Nureyev’s ear. Another follows soon after.

“Juno." His name comes out splintered down the middle. Juno’s heart breaks. The pressure on Juno’s chest changes, and his hands move with Nureyev’s face as he turns to fumble around for—what?

There’s a click, and Juno has his answer: A bedside lamp.

It takes too long for Juno to banish the spots from his eye. Beyond Nureyev’s steady weight he can feel the brush of the ship’s recycled air on his skin—hear a vent clink somewhere above their heads. In time the harsh bedside light softens to a warm yellow, and at last Juno can make out the figure braced above him on the bed.  

He’s beautiful. Nureyev’s cheeks are ruddy, his hair wildly askew from Juno’s frantic fingers. His Adam’s apple bobs as he stares down at Juno, scared and defiant, and another tear catches on his chin. His eyes are bright as a meteor shower.

Juno has never seen Nureyev this vulnerable. He hears the challenge loud and clear: Can Juno afford Nureyev the same courtesy, outside the cover of darkness?  

Juno’s scared too—scared out of his mind.

But for Nureyev? Of course he can. He props his palms behind him on the bed for leverage and leans up to kiss Nureyev on the nose.

It’s enough to buckle him already—the weight of what feels like a public gesture—but Nureyev’s watery smile gives Juno the courage to cross the finish line:

“I love you.”

Juno’s name falls out of Nureyev’s mouth like a prayer. It sounds like bone-deep relief. Nureyev’s hand finds the back of Juno’s head. He surges forward, and as their lips lock, four truths echo through Juno’s mind:

They’re alive. They’re here, and they’re together, and they’re going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another round of editing? Probably needed. But it's 5:30 a.m. and uh...whoops. I'll get to that later. 
> 
> -Slams fists on table- SPACE SHIPS HAVE SINKS NOW! Definitely for practical purposes and not because I needed props! 
> 
> Comments fuel my sappy, sappy soul. Cheers, y'all!
> 
> Also: Big thanks to [Pact Magic ](https://pactmagic.tumblr.com/)on Tumblr for [their commentary on Nureyev's handling of Juno's mental state post-Martian bomb](https://pactmagic.tumblr.com/post/184333728248/jitterbug-juno-im-still-not-over-how-tragic). It really helped shape this chapter!! 
> 
> This fic was actually inspired by a Sherlock BBC fic! I must've read it years ago...It's about Sherlock drafting all these texts to John while he's away post-The Final Problem. Once he gets back he accidentally sends them all to John, who starts replying to the texts one at a time from his room upstairs. I CAN'T BELIEVE I CAN'T FIND IT! I've been looking high and low... >:(
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [Jitterbug-Juno](https://jitterbug-juno.tumblr.com).

**Author's Note:**

> I must've listened to [Genevoise's "A la Claire Fontaine" ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3pC2cHHPQ-A) a hundred times while writing this. That, and ["P."](https://sylvainchauveau.bandcamp.com/track/p) and ["N" ](https://sylvainchauveau.bandcamp.com/track/n) by Sylvian Chauveau. 
> 
> Y'all know what happens next chapter I'm sure. I'll update asap.
> 
> COMMENTS ARE LOVE, COMMENTS ARE LIFE
> 
> You can also find me on Tumblr at [Jitterbug Juno.](https://jitterbug-juno.tumblr.com)


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